In The Drink
by AliasRecs
Summary: Late Season 1-ish. Pre- Almost Thirty Years. S/V. An unusual meeting at the warehouse on a friday night. Aliasrecs doesn't own this story, it was originally written by omg.
1. Chapter 1

Title: In The Drink  
Timeline: Late Season 1-ish. Pre- Almost Thirty Years  
Rating: PG-13 for language and situation  
Disclaimer: ALIAS was created by J.J. Abrams and is also the property of Bad Robot, Touchstone, ABC, etc. I'm not an entertainment attorney, so I can't be sure. But I am sure that I am not J.J. Abrams (as will become painfully obvious to you, I'm sure). I do not own these characters and am not gaining anything (other than embarrassment) through their temporary use in this story.

A/Ns: (Number 1) This story is complete and is posted here in its entirety. I'm all about instant gratification when it comes to fanfiction. I am not holding any chapters hostage for review/response ransom. (Number 2) This is my first fanfic, but that doesn't mean you have to be kind. I mean, I wrote it. If it sucks it's my own fault. You don't even have to review if you don't want to. (Number 3) Don't you just hate long author's notes? (Number 4) **Please be sure to read the author's note at the end of the story.** (Number 5) Hope you enjoy!

-

Michael Vaughn paced the cage.

She was late.

Well, technically she couldn't be late for a meeting that had no set starting time, so she wasn't late. She was… overdue. Yes, overdue. Taking longer than usual. It wasn't that he was being impatient. He was used to waiting. With his job, he was in a constant state of hurry up and wait. Normally, the waiting didn't bother him. It had taken him twenty minutes to arrive at the warehouse after he made the call. After waiting patiently within the chain-link walls for half an hour he had started to pace. He paced long-ways from the back wall toward the gate and each time he approached the gate he couldn't help but glance through the metal diamonds to see if she might finally be arriving. After fifteen minutes of that, he changed directions to pace along the width of the cage instead. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and – she was late.

And he was worried. At the moment he realized that, he automatically reached up to finger his furrowed brow – the wrinkles Weiss always teased him about. What could have happened to keep her? A tail? A wreck? Damn, she could be lying in a ditch somewhere. (He made a mental note to call his mom and apologize for all the nights he had kept her up late waiting for him to come home.)  
She had answered the call at home. _Thank God_, he thought guiltily. He always hated calling her on a Friday or Saturday night. His greatest, most irrational fear was that she would show up all dressed up and disappointed that he had ruined her date. But not tonight because she had answered her home phone. Unless… the date had been at her house with her. _Don't think about that._

Finally, about half past midnight, he heard feet shuffling along the concrete floor outside the cage. Shuffling wasn't something he associated with Sydney Bristow, so he quickly but quietly moved to a shadowy spot near the front fence, where his instinct told him not to pull his gun. His instinct was right. Sydney was casually making her way toward the gate. Relieved, he stepped out of the shadows and went to open the gate. If he hadn't, he might not have seen her reach a steadying hand out to the fence for just a second before turning to walk through the gate. Before he could say anything, she looked up and smiled.

"Hey," he said. It was almost a question.

"Hiya!" He nearly jumped at her chipper tone. It didn't match the shuffling feet or the balancing grip on the fence.

"Are you okay?"

"Yup!" she answered, letting the "o" past her defenses but tackling the "kay." Her cheerful tone might have fooled anyone else, but the prompt hiccup following her answer probably wouldn't have. The swaying that came next would have clued in all but a blind man. He fought the urge to step forward and provide something for her to lean on.

"Sydney, have you been drinking?"

"Yes. No. Yes. Well, not drinking. Getting drunk. There's a difference you know." The last part she said very seriously, as if she were revealing a secret man had searched far and wide to discover. She started to lose her balance again and he reached both hands out to grab her upper arms. He steadied her at arm's length as one might hold a baby with a dirty diaper.

"Jesus, Sydney! How did you get here? You didn't drive, did you?"

"Noooo. I called a cab. It dropped me at a hole-in-the-wall bar about a mile away." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the general direction. "I slipped out the back and walked here."

"You walked? It's after midnight!" He realized belatedly how stupid that sounded, but luckily she chose not to point out that she was a highly-trained operative who could definitely handle a walk in the dark. He pushed ahead to an even greater concern. "Did you even check for tails?" He could feel his wrinkled forehead working overtime.

"Um, yeah. Sure. I think I recall doing that at some point. Yesss." Hiccup. Giggle.

"s***." He led her over to a crate. "Sit here. Don't move." He realized his own lack of compassion for her but didn't have time to analyze it since he was too busy rushing out the gate and toward the warehouse door, where he didn't even wait for instinct's input before pulling his gun from its holster between his gray T-shirt and windbreaker. _s*** s*** s***._ He held his breath, twisted the knob, and began to push the heavy metal door open a crack, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak. When they didn't and he realized there was no gun barrel pointed at his head, he exhaled and inhaled once more before opening the door wider and stepping outside. His visual scan of the gravel parking lot revealed no vehicles other than his own, and no feet showing on the other side of his car. (He had seen that trick on TV well before he ever reached The Farm.) Another deep breath. He went down the few concrete steps with his back pressed against the wall and made his way to the corner of the building. He crouched and just barely stuck his head around the corner to check that side of the building. Everything seemed clear.

He made one more scan and a quick stop at his car before he turned back to the warehouse. He called the security detail working with the task force. One of the officers confirmed that there was no evidence of SD-6's security section having been active within a five-mile radius of the warehouse. _No thanks to Sydney, _he thought. It was at this exact point that he realized there was no room for compassion because he was so damn _angry_ . Of course, he was angry with her because she had put herself in danger, and that concerned him more than anything. So it was anger based on concern and he knew that by the time he crossed the 40 yards back to the cage the anger would just barely hang in the air like day-old fumes, but the concern would be dripping from his pores. _Dammit, I'm such a pushover._ Shaking his head, he holstered his gun and walked back into the warehouse.

Thankful that he was wearing tennis shoes and she didn't hear him coming, Vaughn stopped for a moment outside the gate to catch his breath and decide how to handle this new situation. He looked through the fence to examine the very cause of the situation. This was a new look for Sydney. Loose jeans with holes in the knees, an old T-shirt frayed at the edges, and ratty tennis shoes. He wondered if maybe this wasn't a new look, but the real look. Maybe he just never got to see the real, uninhibited thing. She had scooted herself as far back on the crate as possible, and she was leaning her back against the fence with her eyes closed. The fence was bending a little beneath her weight and she was starting to slouch down it. He had a brief flash of those old cartoons, the good ones they don't show anymore on Saturday mornings, where the characters might slide through a crack, butts to the ground, feet in the air, and noses kissing knees. He tried to shake the image from his head as he passed through the gate. The realization that he really had no idea how to handle the situation scared the crap out of him. He had a feeling normal handler-asset protocol wouldn't work in this scenario. _When was the last time I had to take care of a drunk chick?_

"Syd?" By this time, he was standing less than two feet away but she hadn't acknowledged his presence. Her eyes fluttered open at hearing her whispered name (_at least she hasn't passed out… yet_ ) but her expression was completely blank. "Come on, let's get you in a little, uh, safer position." She reached out her hand for his help and he didn't think twice about giving it. Moving one hand up to her bare elbow he helped pull her forward and helped her off the crate to a plastic chair placed by the metal table. She sat gingerly with the table on her right side, and placed her right elbow on it for stability. Unfortunately this did nothing to stop her head from moving in tiny circles, seemingly not quite anchored to her shoulders. He gently pushed her shoulders back against the chair and then squatted in front of her, placing a heavy hand on each of her knees. Through the holes in her jeans he could feel her bare knees against his palms. "Sydney, look at me. Syd!" Nothing. "Focus, Sydney." She did, and the circles stopped. His own gruff voice had shocked him, and he thought for a second that he might be channeling Jack Bristow. _Well, whatever works._

"Francie let you leave the house like this?"

"No. Francie wasn't there."

"Were you with Will?" _Please say no. Please say no. Please say no._

"No."

"Well, who was with you? You weren't drinking alone, were you?"

"Not drinking. Getting drunk," she corrected. Vaughn shook his head. _Even drunk off her ass, she catches all the details._

"I apologize. Let me rephrase the question. Were you getting drunk alone?"

"Yes. When you have as many secrets as I do, it's the only way to go." _Well, she has a point._

"How much have you had to drink?"

"I don't know. I lost count. I started around eight o'clock I guess."

"Geez. What were you drinking?"

"Well, I started with rum and Cokes, but I ran out of Coke."

"Well, that's probably a good thing. Wait – started? What else?"

She looked at him as if he had just asked the stupidest question ever. "Uh, just the rum."

"Straight rum?!" He pulled his head back and wrinkled his nose at the thought.

"Yeah, it's not so bad. Rather smooth, ack—actually. Here, try it for yourself."

His eyes widened in shock as she pulled a silver flask from her back pocket and held it out to him. He was so stunned he couldn't move. But when Sydney shrugged her shoulder, pulled the flask back toward herself, and started unscrewing the cap, he reached out and grabbed it, standing up in the process.

"I think you've had enough of that, Syd. Here, drink some water. Did you eat anything? Take this." He handed her the bottled water and energy bar he had picked up from his car. She took the water grudgingly but turned up her nose at the energy bar, much in the same way Vaughn had reacted to the thought of drinking straight rum. While she drank, he fiddled with the flask, noticing the initials "DH" engraved on its side before placing it on the table. His jacket soon joined it.

He pulled up the other chair to sit across from Sydney and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was thinking of plans to meet his two objectives. One – to find out what had caused Sydney to go to such extremes and rectify the situation. Two – to figure out how the hell to get her home safely. As her handler, he should have been more concerned with the second, but as her... friend he was more concerned with the first. He had a good idea of what her reasons might be, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. It turned out that he didn't have to.

"Don't you want to know why?" Sydney interrupted all of his planning.

"Why what?"

"Why I decided to drink myself into oblivion." She spoke quietly and had seemed to sober. The giggles were gone but her eyes were glazed over with more than alcohol.

"Yes. I told you that you could call me anytime. Why didn't you call me?"

"Why? So you could fix the problem?"

"Yeah. Or at least try."

"Men always want to fix the problem. A woman will listen and empathize, but a man always wants to tell you how to fix the problem. Not all problems can be fixed."

"But shouldn't you at least try, instead of avoiding it altogether?" He wouldn't touch the man versus woman comment with a ten-foot pole.

"Do you remember the last time you got drunk, Vaughn?" She switched lanes without signaling and it took him a minute to catch up.

"Yeah."

"How long ago was it?"

"I'm not sure exactly. A while." The answer was so vague that it was nearly a lie. He remembered when it was and he remembered the reason. But he didn't want to go into the details with her. That was something she certainly didn't need to know.

"Well I remember," she replied. "I was still an undergrad. A sophomore. Francie just barely stopped me from streaking across campus." She blushed. "I mean, I've been tipsy since then, but not really, really drunk. By the middle of sophomore year I started going on missions for SD-6 and after that I pretty much always limited myself to two drinks. Loosh—" she stopped and shook her head a bit before trying again. "Loose lips sink ships and all that." She pronounced the words very carefully. Vaughn just nodded in response. "The last time you got drunk, why didn't you try to fix the problem? Why didn't you call somebody?" Back in the left lane, again no signal, but he was learning to keep up with her drunken weaving.

"Who says there was a problem?" He proceeded with caution, wary of her line of questioning.

"You assumed I got drunk because I had a problem. Why shouldn't I assume the same about you? Can't a woman drink just to drink? Just for fun? Or is that reserved for the male of the species, along with the ability to take a piss standing up?" _Where did that come from?, _he thought. _She's looking for a fight._

"I didn't _assume_ you had a problem," he responded calmly. "You're the one who brought up the issue of _men_ trying to fix problems. That led me to believe that you had a problem. I think that was a logical conclusion."

"Touché," she laughed softly, relaxing the muscles around her eyes which she had squinted in her mock anger. _Bomb defused._

"Okay. So can we drop the whole battle of the sexes thing? I have a feeling that you don't run into too many men you can't best, so I doubt that was what was bothering you." She chuckled again. He had to give in to her. The chuckle did him in. "Ah, s***. So maybe there was a problem. Let's say that there was a problem, and let's say that I did call someone. Now let's say that the person I called was Weiss. It just so happens that Weiss' solution to most problems is to get drunk," he laughed. "But at least I called him, Syd."

"Is Weiss the one you always call?"

"Not always, but usually."

"Who else do you call?"

"It depends on the problem, I guess." He wanted to get the subject off of himself and back onto her. "You should have called, Sydney."

He waited for her response, but she just sat there quietly, looking at her hands resting in her lap, still holding the water bottle. A minute passed before either of them said anything. Finally, without looking up, she spoke.

"I couldn't talk to Francie or Will."

"I know that. And you know that I'm not suggesting that you talk to Francie or Will." More silence. She was still staring at her hands, apparently intrigued by a particular scratch among the many on the knuckles of her right hand.

"I didn't want to talk to you," she said. _Oh God, this is what it feels like to be stabbed in the heart. There's the knife buried to the hilt and, oh God, please don't let her twist it. I won't be able to handle it if she twists it._

"Why not?" _You're just asking her to twist it._

"Because," she took a deep breath, "I knew you would try to fix it. It wasn't a problem that could be fixed. It was a problem I just wanted to forget for a while. That's why I decided to get drunk. I wanted to drown it out for a while." He nodded his understanding. The truth was that when he had called Weiss, he hadn't called to talk about the problem. He had just said, "I need to get drunk." Seeing as how he had done essentially the same thing, he couldn't badger her anymore without feeling guilty.

"Guilt," she said, finally looking up.

"What?!" _Now she's reading my mind._

"Guilt. That's the reason I decided to get drunk. That's what I was trying to drown. My guilt."

He sighed. He wasn't expecting this. He wasn't necessarily surprised by it, but he wasn't expecting it tonight. He thought he had known her reasons for getting drunk and he had prepared himself to deal with them. He had expected sorrow. The sorrow he thought he could alleviate. He had experienced it himself. He knew what it felt like. He could share it with her. An ear to listen, a few soothing words, a shoulder to cry on, perhaps a hug. But he wasn't sure how to deal with guilt. Especially guilt that he knew was unfounded. What could she be guilty of? He might be biased, but he didn't think it was possible that she could be guilty of anything, except maybe beating herself up. He knew she was waiting for him to ask her what she was guilty of, and as much as he didn't want to dignify her ridiculous reason with a response, he couldn't disappoint her.

"What guilt?" he scoffed.

"I've got guilt."

"Guilt over what?"

"I lie to my friends every day." He started shaking his head before she could even finish the sentence. "No, you're right. Not every day. I only lie to them on the days that I see them. The days that I don't see them, it's because I'm doing a job I've lied about in a place other than the one I told them I would be in. It's kinda funny, huh?" Her tone made it clear that she didn't think it was funny at all.

"You lie to your friends to protect them."

"You're trying to fix the problem." She grinned at him and he grinned back. _Busted._

"You're right. I'm sorry. I can't help it. Must be the Y chromosome. Why don't you humor me?"

"Alright."

"Their lives are in danger just because they know you—"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

"Well, if you'd let me finish…"

"Sorry. Continue."

"The fact that you care about them puts them in danger. But you can't help that. Telling them the truth would put them in even more danger. Ending the friendship without explanation would hurt them, too. And you can't go back in time and change the fact that you met them and became friends. So you just have to accept that – without guilt – and do what you have to do to protect them until this is over. And you can't punish yourself for choices you didn't make."

"I chose to join SD-6. I chose to become a double agent."

"You didn't consciously choose to work for the bad guys when you were starting out. You didn't _choose_ to become a double agent. If you hadn't, you would have either had to keep working for SD-6 after you knew they were the enemy, or they would have killed you. That's not a choice." She remained silent. "Sydney, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."

"I know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm guilty of other things."

"Like what?" He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, ready for anything she could dish out.

"I've killed people." _Ouch._

"Me, too. Does that automatically make me a bad person?" Her head shot to the side quickly and he could see the apology and regret written across her face.

"Vaughn—"

"What you've done has been in self-defense, in defense of the people you love, or to protect your country. Nobody who even remotely understands our jobs would blame you for that. And you shouldn't blame yourself either."

"My mother killed your father."

_Dammit!_ He shot out of his chair. "What does that have to do with anything? You can't possibly feel guilty for that!" He couldn't hold back his anger – anger that she brought up the painful subject once again, and anger that she kept trying to take the blame for it.

"Don't tell me what to feel." Her voice was low and threatening, its volume kept in check by the dull pounding in her head. Her tone stopped him from yelling at her like he wanted to, from telling her that he died a little bit each time she mentioned his father's death. That would be too much like telling her she was killing him. Instead of yelling, he shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his jeans.

"Fine. What do you want me to tell you? I've told you plenty of times that it's not your fault. I don't know what else to tell you."

"I don't know either." She shook her head slowly. "I just… I don't want to end up like her, Vaughn."

"I know. And I don't think you will."

"But, how can you say that? How can you know that? I'm already half way there. I've already killed people. And regardless of what you say, I don't see how I can honestly tell myself that it's any different. I mean, she was trying to protect her country, too, wasn't she? They were different ideals, but it was what she believed in. I'm doing the same thing."

"You're _not_ doing the same thing. She _assassinated_ those CIA officers; she assassinated my father under orders. She didn't do it in the course of trying to complete a mission. The killing _was_ her mission. She wasn't provoked. She wasn't protecting herself. She was blindly following orders. She planned the time, she planned the place, she laid in wait, and she killed them. You've never done anything like that Sydney, and I think I know you well enough to say that you never would, even if you were ordered."

"Would it make a difference to you?"

"What?"

"If your father had been killed under different circumstances, would it hurt less? Would you hate her less if she had been a regular adversary on a mission?" He was taken aback by her question and didn't answer right away. Suddenly the clenched fists in his pockets weren't enough. He grabbed onto the back of the chair he had vacated and gripped as hard as he could to feel the pain. He managed to keep his voice calm when he finally answered.

"I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, up until a few months ago, I didn't even know who had killed him. I knew that the Agency thought he was ambushed, but there weren't a lot of details. There still aren't. I…"

"No, it's okay. It's not really a fair question. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's just… ever since I found out about you, about your father… the thought that I might have killed someone's father… There might be some sweet, adorable, _innocent_ eight-year-old boy thousands of miles away who doesn't have a father _because of me_ . And he's going to grow up hating me, just like you hate my mother. He's not going to understand that I had to do it to protect myself or my country. It's not going to make a difference, is it?" She was holding the tears in check but her face looked horrified.

Her words sickened him. The same thoughts had plagued him in his previous days as a field agent, after he had witnessed the fall of a man at his own hands for the first time. The feelings resurfaced again after the Badenweiler funerals. They had made him wonder who had tried to comfort the children of his victims in the past. He had felt like such a hypocrite. He couldn't find the words to answer her. If he couldn't console himself, how could he console her?

With no words left to comfort either of them, he started pacing again. His pacing was finally stopped a few minutes later by the faint sound of Sydney's voice. "Vaughn, please stop pacing. You're gonna make me sick." He stopped and watched as she lowered her head again, resting her chin on her chest. She was inhaling deep breaths through her nose. He walked over and squatted next to her, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on her back.

"I'm sorry, Syd." _For everything. For the pacing, for not having a trash can handy. For not being able to give you an answer, for not being able to tell you that it will get better. _"Just… keep breathing." He felt ridiculous telling her that, especially after being reprimanded (perhaps rightfully so) for telling her how to feel just minutes earlier. Telling her to breathe probably wouldn't go over very well. When she finally raised her head, her eyes were still closed. She swallowed a few times. He tucked some loose hair behind her ear to reveal a face marred by red blotches. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine. I just need a minute." He pulled out his handkerchief (his mother had taught him well) and moistened it with some of the bottled water. He patted it on her forehead and cheeks for a few seconds before lifting her hair to hold it to the back of her neck. She inhaled again and then let out a shuddering breath. He suddenly felt like he was intruding, so he lifted her own hand to her neck to hold the handkerchief, then he stood and walked away, this time behind her. He leaned against the back wall, closing his own eyes and cursing himself for a thousand different reasons.

Five minutes later, he worked up the nerve to walk back to her. She had her face buried in her arms, which were crossed on the table beside her. When he sat back in his chair she turned her head sideways to look at him.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"That's quite a skill. Maybe you could teach Weiss. Don't tell him I said this, but for a big guy, he doesn't hold his liquor too well. It usually ends badly." She grinned.

"Well, I'm a master at keeping my emotions under the surface. Why should vomit be any different?"

"Yeah, I guess you've got a point." He cringed, partially because of her graphic comment and partially because of what he was about to say. "Listen, Sydney, I don't know what to tell you about—"

"I know, and it's okay. I told you, it's a problem without a solution. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't come up on occasion, and I just wanted to forget it for a while."

"To drown it," he repeated her earlier words.

"Yeah."

"Was it working, before I called and ruined your progress?" She seemed to pause to consider his question.

"No," she answered, pushing her upper body away from the table and back up to face him. "It was more like I was drowning in it." He just nodded, remembering his night drinking with Weiss and the complete failure in reaching his objective of forgetting. The next morning he awoke with a hangover and the problem still foremost in his mind. It looked the same as the night before (it had a face suspiciously like Noah Hicks' file photo and a voice that was uniquely Sydney's) except now it had a hazy and pounding quality and when he tried to brush it aside it moved a little more slowly and left brushstrokes in its wake. Sydney's voice pulled him back to the present. "Why did you call, anyway?"

_s***._ "Oh, um, it's not important. I mean, it can wait until another time, when you're feeling better." _Smooth, Agent Vaughn._

"Oh. Okay." Her tone was incredulous, a little confused, but she seemed to drop her concern after a split second. He noticed. It wasn't like her. She should have pressed for more information. She should have insisted that she was fine. She should have demanded to know why he called her, what he knew that she didn't. Instead, she just sat staring at her scraped knuckles once again. Not like her at all. _Leave it alone. Just leave it alone and get her home before you open a can of worms you can't close._

"Sydney, is there something else?" _Dammit, you couldn't leave it alone._ She kept her eyes averted and didn't make a sound, just shook her head "no" slowly. He wasn't buying it. "Sydney," he tried to reprimand her with the Jack Bristow voice again, but it didn't work this time. Finally, he resorted to begging. "Sydney, _please_ tell me what's wrong." This still didn't bring her to answer, but it did result in a sniffle and more head shaking, which gave him a view of her eyes now watery with unshed tears. Not the effect he was hoping for. "I can't let you leave like this, in this state. I wouldn't be doing my job."

"Your job?!" Her head shot up and her eyes bore into his skull.

_Ah, that got a reaction. Again, not the one I was looking for, but still… _

She was yelling now. "Is that all this is, you doing your _job_ ? Your f****** _job_ ?"

_Oh, no, there is no way she just said that. _

"What do you think? How many handlers do you think there are sitting in a dark warehouse talking about their dead fathers with their drunk agents after midnight on a Friday night? I'll tell you – not too damn many! No, this isn't me doing my job. I'd say this is above and beyond the call of duty!" Two could play the yelling game. (It said so right there on the side of the box. Two or more players, appropriate for all ages.) He continued fuming, his intentions had been questioned and his pride insulted.

"Vaughn, I'm sorry, I—"

"No, don't apologize. If that's the way you feel, that's fine. Don't apologize." She may have switched to her indoor voice, but he was still in full yelling mode.

"No, I don't feel that way. I just… I can't talk—"

"Why not, dammit? Why do you have to be so stubborn? Let me help you."

He reached out a hand to hold hers but she brushed it away as she jumped out of her chair, yelling, "I don't want your help!" Unfortunately, the quick movement was too much, too fast, too soon. She closed her eyes and leaned dangerously to the left, reaching out to steady herself on something that wasn't there. Vaughn, still seated, reacted in a split second. He turned in his chair and reached out both arms, grabbing her by the hips to steady her and center her balance back on both feet. She straightened up and put her own hands on his upper arms. Her eyes were clenched shut. He rose slowly, standing in front of her, hands still on her hips.

"Sydney?" She just shook her head slightly and lowered her arms to her sides. A few tears slid from her closed eyes. "Look, you don't want my help, fine. If you can't talk to me or _don't want_ to talk to me, fine. But I think you need to talk to somebody. Talk to your father, or talk to Barnett." He paused and took a steadying breath. He decided she could stand on her own, and since he was starting to doubt the stability of his own legs, he sank back to his seat with his head in his hands. He didn't want the next words to come out as a lecture. He wanted it to reflect the concerned friend he was. "Sydney, you have to be so careful. You can't let whatever's bothering you take over. You have to stay focused. If you're not focused, if you make one mistake, it could mean your—it could have devastating consequences. I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't want you to get hurt." He felt like he had been powering the emotional roller coaster, not just riding on it. He was worn out.

It was her turn to walk away. Slowly, her shuffling feet carried her toward one of the side walls, where she leaned against a crate.

"I lied to you."

He stiffened at the sound of her pained voice, but he couldn't make himself turn around to look at her. "What?"

"I lied, sort of. Earlier, when I said that I decided to get drunk so I could forget my problems, so I could drown the guilt. I mean, I did feel guilty about those things, and I did want to forget them in a way, but that's not why I started drinking. The truth is, I did something so horrible and felt so guilty about it that I just didn't want to forget. I wanted to swim in the guilt." She paused and he could tell that she was waiting for him to say something. He couldn't move. "I'm worried that it might be too close to home, too personal. Talking about it with you might just make it worse."

_Now I'm confused_ , he thought. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Too personal to talk about?"

"Yeah."

"With me?"

"Yeah."

"Because…?" Again, she shook her head. She wasn't ready to explain it to him. He sighed, ran his hands back and forth through his hair a few times, and finally stood up to walk toward her. He stood there next to her, leaning right next to her on the same crate, their shoulders nearly touching. "I can't say that I understand, but I also can't – or won't – force you to tell me what it is. If this problem is too personal to tell me, I won't press it again. I will tell you this, though: if it affects your work or your safety after tonight, I'm going to have to report it to Devlin, who'll report it to Barnett. And I won't be reporting it just because it's my job, but also because I worry about you." He paused to catch his breath and build up the courage to continue. Inhale.

"In the past, for some reason, you felt comfortable enough to come to me when something was bothering you. We've had to discuss things, personal things – about our parents and our jobs and insane prophecies – that no two colleagues, much less normal people, should ever have to discuss. Somewhere along the way, maybe the line that we're not supposed to cross became a little too undefined, and maybe I crossed that line." _You're rambling._ He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "What I'm trying to say is, if I've done something to make you uncomfortable, you should tell me, or Devlin, that you want a new handler. Maybe I'm blowing things out of proportion, but if you're not comfortable with me, or if you don't trust me, then we shouldn't work together. This job is too dangerous for that." Exhale. _Now you're twisting the knife yourself._

She seemed upset by his suggestion. "No, it's not that I don't trust you. I do trust you, Vaughn, more than anyone else, and it's not anything you've done wrong, it's something I've done."

"Well, Lord knows I've broken plenty of rules in the last few months. I'm not going to judge you. Unless… you haven't turned triple, have you?"

"No, definitely not. I think my brain would explode." She had the decency to chuckle, but she kept staring at the floor.

"Okay. Good. That's a relief." He shot her a lopsided grin. _Dare I keep trying? _"Is it a legal or security issue, something I would have to report if you told me about it?" She shook her head no. "It's not about work?" More head shaking. "Okay, well, I'm done. I'll drop it. I hope you find a way to deal with it, preferably a method that requires less rum. Maybe, if it's really not work related, if it's something personal, you could talk to Francie—"

It was at that point that she finally looked up and turned her head toward him. It was his turn to be shocked again. Every muscle in her face looked tight. Veins were standing out on her neck, her jaw was clenched, her lips were pulled in on themselves, her eyebrows and forehead were crushed together and tears were teetering on the edge of red rims. She looked like she was in pain. Extreme, intolerable pain. All thoughts of dropping the subject flew out the window.

"Oh, God, Sydney, please tell me what's wrong. I'm an old man, my heart can't take this." Suddenly his hands couldn't stay still. They were in his hair, on his forehead, pressing at his chest trying to get at his heart, which felt like it had stopped beating. They were everywhere but on her, her hands, her shoulder, her thigh, her hair, where they would have been if she were his girlfriend, where they couldn't be because she wasn't. He took a deep breath to go with the thing he was about to say, the thing he knew good and well he would regret saying. "I won't try to fix the problem. I promise." She finally nodded her acceptance, gulping in a breath of her own.

"It's Danny."

That was all she needed to say really. It was what he had expected from the very beginning.

"Sometimes I still feel guilty about it."

_It's not your fault. I know it feels like your fault, but you thought you were doing the right thing by telling him the truth. It's not your fault. _It was what he wanted to say, but he had made a promise and he intended to keep it.

"It was a year ago today, wasn't it? That was the day he—the day you found him."

"How did you know?" Her eyes, still filled with unshed tears, grew wide.

"It's my job to know." _Uh-oh. Not the whole "job" thing again._

"No, I think that's probably above and beyond the call of duty, too." She smiled gratefully before looking straight ahead, trying to focus back on the subject. "Rationally, I know I didn't kill him. I didn't pull the trigger. But sometimes it feels like I did, you know?"

"Yeah."

"But that isn't what turned me into a complete basket case today."

"It's not?" _Huh?_

"No. It was a secondary reaction. See, last week, I thought about it. I thought about the fact that it – the anniversary – was coming. I hate calling it that." She looked at him and he nodded his understanding. If anyone could understand, he could. An anniversary was supposed to be a happy occasion. The "anniversary of his death" just didn't sound right. It never sounded right, even after twenty-five years. The irony of using it in reference to someone you were supposed to marry must have made it even worse. "Anyway, I thought about it last week. But today, I woke up, went to work, bought groceries. It was just like any other normal day. Then this afternoon I started paying bills. I got to the third check – the third check! – and I wrote the date on the check and it just hit me. I realized that it was today, and that I hadn't even thought about it up until that point. I felt so guilty. He died for my mistake and I didn't even acknowledge it. That's just terrible. I must be an awful person. What if I had waited until tomorrow to pay my bills? I might have missed it altogether."

Tears were flowing down her cheeks now and she was trying to brush them away with her hands. He put an arm around her shoulder to comfort her, but said nothing. She thought for a moment before pushing off the crate, shrugging his arm away gently, and straightening up slowly. She turned and looked him in the eyes and said, point blank, "I don't miss him enough."

"Wh-what?"

"I don't miss him enough. I don't miss him as much as I should. I shouldn't go the whole day without realizing it's the anniversary of his death. I shouldn't go days without thinking about him. I told him that I would marry him. I told him that I was ready to stand in front of a room full of people and promise to love him forever and be faithful to him. But if that was the truth, I shouldn't be able to get over him, right? I should miss him every hour of every day." The words had rushed out quickly, each one racing to keep up with the one before it, but she finally managed to slow them down. "I don't miss him enough. I don't feel guilty enough." It was dawning on her all over again.

She slid along the crate and sank to the floor. He followed, pulling her sobbing body close, cradling her upper body against his chest.

"Oh, Sydney."

"It's the truth. I should miss him more. I should be missing him instead of thinking about…" she trailed off.

"About what?" She couldn't or wouldn't answer. She just shook her head between sobs. She didn't really need to answer. He had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking about. They were the same things he shouldn't be thinking about: Trattoria di Nardi, hockey games, breaking protocol in very definite and tangible ways. At least he _hoped_ she was thinking about the same things. But then he realized (for the hundredth time) that his hope was rooted in an innocent man's death and might rely on her memory of that man fading away. He felt the guilt seep from Sydney's chest, soak through his T-shirt along with her tears, and lodge itself firmly in his heart before oozing down to his stomach and up to his throat and he was choking on it and couldn't breathe and _God, don't cry. She needs you, don't cry. She needs you, don't cry. _It became his mantra and luckily it worked.

Ten minutes later the tears had stopped and her breathing was slow and steady except for the occasional shudder as she tried to take a deep breath. Her grip on his T-shirt had loosened a little. She had nearly cried herself to sleep. He kept her close, nestled in the "V" between his chest and his knees, which he had pulled close for more support. (His arms alone hadn't been enough to hold both of their burdens.) He sat there for another five minutes, fighting the urge to beat his head against the crate behind them (succeeding) and fighting the urge to just watch her (failing miserably).

"Sydney?" He gave her a light squeeze. Her only response was to tighten her fists around his shirt. He pried one of his arms away to brush some loose hair off of her face so he could see whether her eyes were open. "Syd?"

"Hmm?" She kept them closed.

"It's late. We should get you home. This would be a s***ty place to wake up with a hangover." She grinned and nodded before pushing herself into a sitting position next to him. He had to move before the absence of her froze him in his spot. While she released her hair from its disheveled ponytail, he stood and walked to the table to grab the handkerchief. He crossed back and handed it down to her. She smiled gratefully and used it to wipe her face. She stood, folded it neatly, and tried to give it back to him. On impulse, he shrugged one shoulder and said, "You keep it."

"Vaughn- "

"It's just a handkerchief. I've got plenty. It's no big deal."

"It's not monogrammed or anything, is it? I don't know how I would explain that to Francie if she ever saw it." She was grinning now.

"No, no monogram. Despite what Weiss says, I'm not _that_ GQ." As she gingerly put the handkerchief in her pocket, he gathered everything else from the table and put on his windbreaker. He turned back to her and reached out his hand, which now held the flask. She hesitated slightly before reaching out her hand to grab it. When he wouldn't let go of the flask, she looked up at him questioningly.

"Do me a favor. Pour that out when you get outside, okay?"

"Okay." She chuckled. Still, he held on.

"You're gonna be okay, right?" His look was desperate. Hers did not waver.

"Yeah. I will be."

"Good." He released the flask into her hand.

They exited the cage and he turned to close the gate behind them. She waited for him and they started walking to the door side-by-side.

"Listen, I put a call in to security and surveillance earlier, and they confirmed there was no evidence of SD-6's security section in this area. They would have called me if that changed, but I'm just gonna run out to my car and check things out. I'll be right back." When he returned she was leaning against the wall. "Everything looks clear. It's gotten a little chilly. I'd give you my jacket…"

"But it might get us killed."

"Uh, yeah." He shifted his weight and cleared his throat nervously. "I'd like to walk you home…"

"But that would definitely get us killed."

"Well, how about the next best thing?" He held up a small clear bag containing an earpiece.

"Are you planning on putting me in your trunk again, Agent Vaughn?" She smiled, all dimples.

"Ha ha. No. That might be a little suspicious. But at least this way I can keep you company, and I'll know for sure that you got home safely."

"Vaughn, it's really not necessary."

"Yes, it is. Please."

"Okay."

"Great. Now, do you have your cell phone?"

"Um, no." She cringed in embarrassment.

"Well, use my phone to call the cab company. They won't be able to trace the number. Set it up so the cab should get to the bar around the same time you do. Think you can get back in through the back?"

"Yeah. It shouldn't be a problem."

"Good. Maybe that way anyone who might be watching won't realize you weren't there the whole time." Sydney suddenly looked off to the side. He noticed, of course. "What is it?"

"I really screwed up, didn't I? I was stupid. It was dangerous." She looked back at him. "I put you in danger, too. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been so much trouble."

"Well, I'm not saying you should make it your new SOP, but don't worry about it. It's no trouble. Seriously. Besides, you gave me something to do with my Friday night." He realized he shouldn't have mentioned that. She might ask him why he called her on Friday night in the first place. Or why he didn't have a life of his own. Hoping to head her off at the pass, he pressed on. "So where's this bar? I'll drive over, check it out and let you know if the back is clear before you try to get in."

"It's on Harris, between Eighth and Ninth streets."

"What's it called?"

"Wild and Rowdy," she mumbled.

"Wild and Rowdy?"

"Yeah. Well, actually, it's The Wild and Rowdy Rooster, but nobody calls it that."

"I see." He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain. She didn't.

"So anyway. Can I use your phone?" He dug it out of his pocket and handed it to her with a smirk on his face. "Thanks." She dialed the cab company's number from memory and requested a cab.

"All set?" he asked as she returned his phone to him.

"Yep."

"Do you have money for the cab?"

"Yes, Dad." She laughed, then inserted the earpiece and flicked the switch.

"Well, Cinderella, I think it's past your bedtime. Let's get you home." He wanted to take the last words back as soon as they escaped his mouth. They sounded too familiar, like he would be walking her to her front door, maybe even tucking her in. But then, the line between professional and personal really was blurry for them, and tonight's events hadn't helped to sharpen it any. Still, he realized that no matter how distinct the line, the area surrounding them was wrought with mines. Even if they dance around the line without ever crossing it, they might cause disaster. They couldn't risk getting sloppy. "Hey, Syd?" She paused in turning the door knob to look back at him. "Good luck." With a smile, she stepped out into the cool night air.


	2. Chapter 2

He gave her a three minute head start before he exited the warehouse as well. He glanced down the street before pulling out of the parking lot in the opposite direction, watching her in his rear view mirror. While he stopped at the first stop sign, he watched her hold the flask out to her side and pour out the remaining rum as she continued walking. He grinned, realizing that she had waited for him to pull out of the parking lot so that he could see her follow through on his "orders." He was surprised when she removed his handkerchief from her back pocket and delicately wrapped it around the flask before returning both to her back pocket. His heartbeat sped up a little, but he decided to save himself some grief by not reading too much into her actions. He turned left and started his wide arc to intercept her path. After a few more minutes of silence, he couldn't resist checking in.

"How's your progress, Cinderella?" He heard her laugh at her new code name.

"No problems so far. I'm at the corner of Fox and Third Street. So if I'm Cinderella, are you supposed to be Prince Charming?" He had to swallow before he could answer her.

"I was thinking more along the lines of the Fairy Godmother."

"I don't think you can be a fairy godmother _and_ a guardian angel. There's gotta be some conflict of interest there."

"That's alright. I'll stick with the guardian angel role. I never did look good in pink and I just can't get the hang of the wand. Weiss says it's all in the wrist." That managed to get a good laugh out of her. "Don't laugh too loud. People will think you're nuts walking the streets alone, laughing."

"Maybe I am nuts. I mean, I must be. Sometimes I think that's the only possible explanation."

"Well, maybe so, but nobody else has to know that. The nice men in white jackets might take you away and give you a special white jacket of your own. And then I'd be left to explain the situation to your father. No thank you!" She giggled quietly and they remained silent while he executed a few more turns. "I'll be at the next intersection, Fox and Fourth Street, on Fourth."

"Copy that."

He pulled over, turned off his headlights, and waited on the side of the deserted road in a shaded section between two street lights, about thirty yards from the intersection. He watched her cross in front of his car. She avoided looking directly at his car. After she had passed by, he rolled forward, closer to the intersection, and waited for several minutes, looking for any signs that someone might be following her. When everything seemed clear, he allowed himself to relax a little more and then pulled onto Fox to follow in Sydney's wake.

"Alright, Cinderella. Everything looks clear back here. I've got a visual on you, and I'm proceeding to the target location."

"Copy that, Archangel." He laughed at her cleverness.

"I have to admit I like my new code name, but don't ever let Weiss know about it, or I'll never hear the end of it." As he got closer he noticed her shoulders became tense. "It's just me," he assured her. Seconds later he passed her and heard a deep murmur in his ear.

"Hey, baby. Goin' my way?"

He nearly choked. Then he prayed that she hadn't noticed, then he prayed even harder that he would hear her call him "baby" again. Soon. He tried to cover up with a quick comeback.

"Only if your way is toward The Wild and Rowdy Rooster. I hear it's all the rage with the hip double-agent super-spy crowd."

"All the rage? Hip? Who talks like that?"

"Old guys like me. By the way, I'm impressed."

"By what?"

"Your ability to walk in a relatively straight line."

"Oh come on. I wasn't that drunk."

"There was definite stumbling. And slurring."

"Oh God."

"No streaking, though, I'm sorry to say." _Where did that come from?_

"Well, the night's still young."

"I'm keeping my fingers crossed." _Watch out for those mines, Agent Vaughn._

"As long as you're not holding your breath."

"What? Too sober for streaking?"

"Too cold."

"Tsk tsk tsk. No cell phone, no jacket... You would have made a terrible boy scout."

"Hey, at least I remembered the flask."

"Yeah, at least you had your priorities straight."

Vaughn cruised the area surrounding the bar. Although there were more cars and quite a few motorcycles, he didn't notice anything unusual.

"It looks like the back entrance is clear."

"Thanks," she said, just as he noticed a group of interesting characters coming out the front door, which was propped open and manned by an equally interesting bouncer. He had never seen so many huge men in so much leather. Each one either had lots of hair on his head or lots of hair on his face, but rarely a combination of the two. He watched as they horsed around before they mounted their motorcycles and sped off down the street.

"Geez. How did a girl like you find a place like this?"

"I hope that's not your usual pick-up line."

"Seriously, this place looks like a total hole. How did you even know it existed?"

"You'd have to get me a lot more drunk than this to get that story out of me. I'm entering through the back."

"Copy that."

Within seconds the background noise filtered through his earpiece. Other than the thumping of bass and maybe some electric guitar, he couldn't pick out much. He heard the occasional yell, the occasional burst of laughter, and the occasional (but clearly identifiable) crack of pool balls colliding. He didn't hear anything out of Sydney, and certainly didn't expect to hear her respond when he heard a guy yell, "Candy! Long time no see, babe!" But it was certainly her voice that he heard responding over the din.

"Hey, Joe. How's it goin'?" _Candy? Babe? _He must not have heard the guy correctly.

"Pretty good. How 'bout you?"

"Oh, you know, same s***, different day," he heard Sydney respond. It was Sydney, right? His Sydney? It had to be her. He recognized her sweet voice underneath the rough edges. "How's business?"

"Not too bad. But I've missed you for the past couple of months. I hope you haven't been off making some other bartender's day."

"I wouldn't think of it. I've just been slammed with work." Sydney paused for a few seconds before Vaughn heard her continue. "I've got this new boss. He works me pretty hard, calls me in at all hours of the day. He's always bustin' my balls." She was taking a jab at him, and he had to laugh.

"You want me to have a talk with this guy?" Joe asked with a little mischief in his voice.

"Nah. He's mostly harmless," she replied, laughing.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult," Vaughn said.

"You know what I say?" Joe's voice came back through the earpiece. "I say screw him." _Listen to the man, Syd. That is some good bartender advice. _"What can I get you to drink? For my best girl, it's on the house."

"Thanks, but I've been here for a while and I've got a cab on the way. I'll have to take a rain check."

"Anything you say, sugar. Just don't stay away so long next time."

"I'll try not to. We'll see when the boss lets me out to play again."

"Alright. Take care, babe."

"You, too, Joe."

"Hey honey, why's a pretty young thing like you going home so early?" This was a new voice, and it was coming through way too loudly for Vaughn's taste. Too loudly, like, too close to the earpiece, like, right in Sydney's ear.

"Haven't you heard? The freaks come out at night." Vaughn laughed at her cool response. _Thatta girl._

"Aw, come on. I'll protect you from the freaks. You can sit right here, real close to me." Vaughn barely heard a _thwap_ three times in quick succession and pictured the guy slapping his upper thigh to indicate just how close Sydney should sit. Apparently, he had one hand otherwise occupied, a fact which was made clear by Sydney's next response.

"Well, while your smooth charms and rancid breath combine to make it a very tempting offer, I'm gonna have to pass. So, if you'll remove your greasy hand from my ass, I'll be going."

"Now, now, honey. I think you ought to reconsider." Vaughn's hand was on the handle to his car door and he was already calculating how many seconds it would take him to get to the door of the bar when he heard Joe's voice coming through the earpiece.

"Hey, mister, you're the one who needs to reconsider. I believe the lady made it quite clear that she isn't interested. And she did it all too politely, if you ask me." Vaughn sat still and thought about how much he was really starting to like Joe.

"I didn't ask you, a**hole. Why don't you mind your own f******' business?"

"As a matter of fact, _a**hole_ , this _is my _business. This is _my_ bar. That stool your lousy ass is sitting on is _my_ stool. That large, angry, tattooed man at the door is _my_ bouncer. Now, before I get _my_ bouncer to throw your lousy ass off _my_ stool and out of _my_ bar, I wanna show you something. You see that broken cue framed and hanging on the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Can you read the sign under it?"

"Candy's Cue. So what?"

"So, this is Candy. Candy used that cue to handle the last guy who wouldn't back off. So unless you actually _want_ a broken arm and four – it was four, right?" Sydney must have nodded. "—four broken fingers, I suggest you apologize to this young lady and leave. I would also suggest that you not come back until you learn some manners and add a few more points to your IQ."

Vaughn heard a mumbled apology and less than a minute later a man stumbled out the door and down the sidewalk. He also heard Sydney giggling and thanking Joe for his help as a cab came into view in his rear view mirror.

"Cinderella, your chariot awaits."

She and Joe said their goodbyes (again) and this time Sydney managed to make it to the front door without being accosted. She stepped across the threshold and raised her arm to signal the cab driver. With her other hand she shared a friendly knocking of fists with the bouncer.

"G'night, Candy."

"Goodnight, Bulldog."

"Bulldog? The guy's name is Bulldog?" Vaughn heard himself ask aloud.

"No, the guy's name is Arnold. But don't tell him I told you that." Sydney's response was concealed by a smooth hand movement as she walked toward the cab.

"What about Candy? Do I get an explanation for her, too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said in an innocent voice. "I'll talk to you later. Goodnight." With that, Sydney opened the door, slid into the cab, and shut the door, effectively cutting off all communication, at least on her part. Although Vaughn realized that Sydney was under the impression that she would be on her own from that point on, he had every intention of making sure she made it to her front door.

He toyed with the idea of continuing their conversation. She wouldn't be able to answer him without raising the cab driver's suspicion, but maybe that was a good thing. It was sometimes hard to get a word in edgewise with her. Having Sydney Bristow as a captive audience provided quite a few tempting options. He could badger her about Candy. He could rag her about her drunken slurring. He could give her another piece of his mind about her guilt complex. He could try to fix her problems. He could even tell her all the things he had thought of telling her in The Land of Dreams and No Protocol. All without hearing a peep out of Sydney. She wouldn't be able to say or do anything to contradict him. Well, except for disconnect the comm link, which would leave him talking to himself. He decided to keep his mouth shut. Besides, as soon as he turned off onto a side street to take a different route, he wasn't sure the signal would travel that far. _Yeah, that's a good excuse._

Instead, he took the time to contemplate her near-altercation in the bar. He hadn't been thinking clearly (not with his brain, at least) when he had nearly jumped out of his car to run to her rescue. Even in her semi-drunken state, Sydney could have beaten that guy to within (and probably beyond) an inch of his life, if she had needed to. She didn't need his help beating anybody up, especially some untrained jerk putting the moves on her in a dive bar. It was when she started beating herself up that she needed him to come to her rescue. It was happening all too often these days, he thought, as he turned into her neighborhood.

He took a trip around the block, slyly checking out any parked vehicles. He eventually parked four houses away and across from Sydney's front door, facing the direction from which the cab should be arriving soon.

"Cinderella, there's no sign of surveillance or suspicious activity at your target location." He thought he heard a tiny gasp of surprise on her end (he couldn't be sure, though, because he could also hear the beginning strains of some eighties rock ballad in the background). He chuckled, happy with himself for having surprised her. The cab came to a stop in front of her house and he saw Sydney emerge and nonchalantly look around for his car. When she spotted it she grinned the slightest bit, looked down at her feet, and slowly walked up the path toward her front door.

"You followed me home?"

"Well, it's not technically following since I got here before you did."

"You already knew where I live? You knew how to get to my place?"

_"My place." Her place. Your place or mine?_

"It's in your file. It's my job to know."

"You do your job awfully well, don't you?"

"I try."

"Well, you didn't have to follow me home."

"Oh, I didn't do it for you. I kept Cinderella out kinda late; I was hoping to see the cab turn into a pumpkin." She giggled yet again, and he realized this was one of those things she did when she drank too much. She giggled. He liked it. He hoped it wouldn't take a bottle of rum to hear it again.

She made it to her front porch and began fussing with her hanging plants and shaking out her doormat. Not the smoothest cover in the middle of the night, but it would have to do.

"I feel like I owe you an apology," she said.

"You don't. I told you it's no problem."

"No, not for that. I mean, not really. It's just…"

"What?"

"I doubted you, and I'm sorry for that."

"You doubted me?"

"I thought for sure that you would try to fix the problem, but you didn't. I'm sorry that I didn't believe you."

"I promised you I wouldn't."

"I know. I should have known that you aren't the type to break a promise. I think I did know, but I just…"

"Yeah, I understand." He watched her as she leaned against the low wall of her porch to look up at the sky, at the few visible stars. "There is something you could do to make it up to me."

"What's that?"

"Make me a promise of your own."

"Like what?"

"Promise me that next time, if there is a next time, you'll call me." He watched her as she looked down at her hands.

"Why? So you can fix the problem?" She asked him in a teasing voice and looked up with a grin on her face.

"No. So I can bring the rum. You can bring the Coke. Lots and lots of Coke." That got her laughing.

"Okay. I promise."

"Or, if you prefer, we could go to the Wild and Rowdy." Another laugh. "I'd like to thank Joe in person for taking care of _my_ best girl."

"You better watch it. Lambert called me his girl once, and look where that got him."

"Oh, well, in that case, I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about Candy."

"Well, I don't know about Candy, but I know that I definitely owe you a 'thank you' for tonight. So thanks for tonight. For everything. And for walking me home."

"You're welcome. And it's no problem. Just don't let my mom know that I didn't personally walk you to your front door. She'd lecture me for days on the importance of being a proper gentleman."

"I don't think she has anything to worry about."

_She would if she knew what I'd like to do once I got to that front door._

"Thanks again," she said as she started to turn to her door.

"Listen, before you go." He just couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. "I promised I wouldn't try to fix the problem, but the truth is, I wish I knew how to fix it. I don't know how, but if I could, I would." He paused, trying to decide whether he should continue. He cleared his throat. "If I hadn't promised, I still wouldn't have known how to fix it, but I probably would have tried. If I hadn't promised, I might have told you that I've been in a similar position, and I understand. I might have told you that I've forgotten my father's… day, too. I know that it's lame, and it definitely wouldn't have fixed the problem, and it might not have made you feel any better, but I probably would have told you that, even though I don't know what it's like to lose a fiancée, I know what it's like to lose someone you love. And I know what it's like to miss them, and I know what it's like to feel guilty for not missing them enough." He had plowed through it all and he had to stop and swallow the lump he was choking on. He thought she might be crying again. He thought those might be tears reflecting the moonlight, but, thank God, he wasn't close enough to be sure. "If I hadn't promised not to fix the problem, I might have told you that, even though I didn't know Danny, I know he must have been a wonderful person, just because you chose to be with him. And I might have even told you that he was a lucky man to have had the time he did have with you. I know that it wouldn't have fixed the problem, but, if I hadn't promised, I might have said all of that, and it would have all been true."

He took a deep breath and watched her do the same. She brushed her hand across her cheeks and he wanted to kick himself for making her cry again. But he would have kicked himself harder if he had let her walk into that house without having said those things. He waited for her to say something. He wasn't sure how she would react, but after a long minute of silence he didn't care. He just wanted her to say something, anything. But he was such a wuss. He always broke first.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am, actually. Thank you, again, for everything, including all the things you might have said."

"Anytime."

"Drive safely."

"I will. Get some rest. Go give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money."

"Well, now you're mixing your metaphors, or at least your fairy tales."

"Just trying to keep you on your toes."

"Goodnight, Archangel."

"Goodnight, Cinderella. Sleep tight."

She turned toward the door, and he saw and heard her flip the switch on her earpiece before she opened the door and stepped inside.

He sat outside her house for fifteen minutes, watching the lights flick on and off until she extinguished the light in what he knew to be her bedroom window (he knew because he had memorized the blueprints in a fit of desperation and thoroughness – some said obsession – one sleepless night). Feeling that she was safe and tucked in for the night, he started his car and headed towards home.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into his driveway. He shuffled his feet through the front door, feeling physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Donovan lumbered forward to receive a quick rub behind the ears before heading back to his own personal corner, where he turned around two times before flopping onto his cushion. Vaughn tossed his keys on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He watched them skid to a stop against his PDA. The slight bump caused the stylus to move slightly, which activated the black screen. It came to life and, against a moonlight blue background, his calendar appeared. Today's date was highlighted, and beneath it he saw the reason he had called Sydney in the first place. Two letters. Two small letters. Two small bold letters. Two small bold capital letters. Two small bold capital letters that prompted him to call his asset after eleven o'clock on a Friday night. Two small bold capital letters that prompted him to call his asset after eleven o'clock on a Friday night for a very personal, very non work-related reason. Two letters: DH.

He removed his windbreaker and shoulder holster and placed them on one of the stools tucked under the breakfast bar. He picked up the PDA and bounced the weight of it in his hand as he carried it to the living room. He sank into the middle cushion of the couch, arms and legs stretched out in surrender. He leaned forward to prop the PDA against his coffee table books (one about James Bond, a joke from Weiss; one about the sights of Normandy, a gift from his mother; one a photo history of the Stanley Cup, a gift from himself). He stared down at the PDA (the two letters) until the screen turned itself black. He looked up at the ceiling and said aloud, to his empty house and his snoring dog, the first thing that came to his mind.

"I need a drink."

THE END

A/N: (Number 6) Although the author is well over the legal drinking age, the author does not really drink alcohol (bleck!) and has never been drunk. Although the author does not have a problem with others (of the legal age) drinking alcohol, the author does have a problem with people going overboard when they drink and certainly does not condone drowning your sorrows. The author thinks that, if you drink, you should drink responsibly. Don't drink and drive. Everything in moderation. (Number 7) There are no dates on Danny Hecht's tombstone, but I'm assuming it was about 3 months before October 1st, and therefore June/July. As far as I know, there are no given dates for ATY, but I decided it was feasible to think that about a year had passed. (Number…Are you still counting? Get a life.) Now it should be obvious I am not J.J. or a writer on the show because they would never give us something as sappy as this fic.


End file.
